One old man
When he is around
He’d sit by the porch
A cup of tea in his hand
In an idle afternoon
While the scorching sun
Retires after burning rice paddies
Mountains, dirt roads, and faces
At times it leaves torrential rain
That reminds us of its promise
It’s sure to be back in the morning
But what I remember oh so vividly
That while he sips his bitter tea
He’s all ears on the stereo
Not on music stations
But tuned in on A.M radio
I didn’t understand
His penchant for the agony of twiddling thumbs
With the occasional curses
Murmurs, smirks, and grunts
About politics in all its
Nobility, hypocrisy, and bullshitry
It was a mystery how he could bear
Listening to news
On what transpired from within and without
And listening to the host
And repetitive commercials
Peddling lies and whatnot
But he didn’t mind
Just looked far away
With the all-familiar grin
What he labelled as circus
Worked out fine for him
Almost three decades passed
No longer do I see him
In the rain nor setting sun
Nor his hot cup of bitter tea
That cools him down
But something remained
Which transcended him and his life
As I sit with headsets on
To the AM radio tuned
Murmuring
Grunting
More generous in my cursing
